“The last statue… in {{user}}'s house.”

The phrase settled in Sherlock Holmes’s mind with a peculiar weight, as though it had always been waiting there, patiently, for the right moment to surface.

The black gemstone itself was not a recent curiosity. Decades ago, it had been unearthed amid great secrecy—an obsidian-like jewel of remarkable density and unnatural luster, rumored to refract light in ways no known mineral should. Collectors whispered of it, scholars argued over its origin, and criminals coveted it for a far simpler reason: its price was astronomical. After its disappearance years earlier, most believed it lost to history, another myth inflated by greed and rumor.

Until it resurfaced.

Its return was not announced by auctions or exhibitions, but by blood. A series of murders—seemingly unrelated at first—drew the attention of Sherlock Holmes when he was summoned. Each victim had a tenuous connection to antiquities, private collections, or the illicit trade of rare artifacts. When the pattern finally sharpened into something undeniable.

Did Sherlock care about the gemstone’s value? Not in the slightest. Gold, jewels, and fortunes were dull things to him. What stirred his interest was the design behind the violence—the precision, the concealment, the intellectual arrogance of whoever believed they could hide something perfectly. To Sherlock, the gemstone was merely the answer at the end of a particularly elegant equation.

Weeks followed in relentless succession. Research consumed his days and nights: old shipping manifests, obscure auction records, private correspondences written in codes no one had bothered to decipher. Slowly, methodically, the truth emerged. The gemstone had never been displayed openly. It had been hidden—intentionally and cleverly—inside a series of small marble statues, each carved in the likeness of a blooming rose. Five statues in total, identical in shape and size, distributed among private owners to ensure that no single person knew where the jewel truly lay.

Four statues had already been destroyed.

Each time, gangs had struck, convinced the gemstone lay within their chosen prize. Three murders followed those acts of destruction, fueled by desperation and the certainty that the next statue would be the correct one. Each time, they were wrong. Marble dust, shattered petals, and nothing more.

Which meant only one statue remained intact.

Sherlock knew this before Scotland Yard fully grasped the implication. While inspectors argued jurisdiction and protection, Sherlock reconstructed the path of ownership in his head, aligning dates, conversations, and careless remarks people believed unimportant. And then, suddenly, it came to him—an offhand comment, weeks old, delivered without meaning or emphasis.

{{user}}.

She had once mentioned, almost apologetically, acquiring a small marble statue for her house. A decorative piece. A rose. She had rambled on about how it suited the light near her sitting room window, how it was a recent purchase, nothing special at all.

But it was special. It was the last one.

Sherlock did not waste time with explanations. He did not inform John, nor did he alert Scotland Yard. To do so would invite delay, noise, and panic—and panic would draw the intruder sooner than intended. He already knew when the attempt would be made, how the criminal would enter, and precisely what mistake they would commit in their haste.

By the time he reached Emily’s house, dusk had settled, and the air carried that peculiar stillness that precedes violence. Sherlock’s mind was calm, exquisitely focused. The game was nearing its end, and the final piece was already in place—quietly waiting, just as it always had.

He did not knock. Instead, he positioned himself in the windows cast by the garden wall, and made himself into the living room.

"Good evening, my darling," Sherlock greeted, whipping the dust on his coat while his piercing eyes searched his target.